Insomniac
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: Even the undead sleep eventually. But you're not alive. You're not dead. You're not undead. You simply exist, living in your own personal hell.


A/N Don't own em. Just playing around with a stylistic device a bit. _  
_

_ In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge. -Sidonie Gabrielle_

Even the undead sleep eventually. Even the zombies sleep eventually. Even the vampires sleep. Even those that are not dead and yet not alive need sleep. But you don't. What does that make you? You're not alive. You're not dead. You're not undead. You are simply existing in a state of greyness, in a state of nothingness. That it what you are. You're living your days not awake, not asleep, not alive, not dead, but simply there. The same way a table is neither alive nor dead, but simply there. You have been reduced to simply an object.

You merely survive day to day. You get up in the morning, and go through the motions. _Is it any different than it was before?_ It isn't much of a life at all. _Is it that much worse than it was before?_ Your entire life is spent now trying and failing to get some sleep. _Is it any better than it was before?_ Trying to chase away the nightmares that follow you.

You don't even know if you can call them nightmares. Can nightmares exist if you don't sleep? But they're always there. Always surrounding you, mocking you, crueller than Sirius or James ever could be. When one doesn't sleep, when one's mind does not have a chance to rest and recharge, psychosis begins to set in. It's a phenomena that's well known, has even appeared as the subject of muggle cinema and literature. You've read them all. Seen them all. Hoping to find something to help you chase the nightmares away. You've tried all their suggestions, delving into the world of fiction to try and find something to make it better. You've tried the support groups. You've stooped so low as to try a shrink. All he did was throw some sleeping pills your way. Because you couldn't confess.

You couldn't bring yourself to say that you murdered someone. _It was a mercy killing. _You couldn't tell anyone what you did._ They already know anyway._ You run from it, hide from it. _You can't hind things from yourself._ You act as if it never happened. _You can't go on pretending anymore. _Besides, you'd only get in trouble for it. _Crimes deserve punishment._ You could do without being sent to a muggle prison. _The only way to get relief is through atonement._

After the first few hours of sleeplessness, the body begins to react. The paranoia sets in. That happens first. You start twitching at every little noise. You start swearing things are there that aren't. Ghosts. Demons. The undead. But the undead are sleeping without you. Give it a little more time, and the hallucinations begin. You start seeing things that aren't there. It starts as glimpses out of the corner of your eye. You've gotten used to those. You know they exist. Then the world around you begins to morph as well. You blink and when you open your eyes you're staring a killer in the face. You look around and the world is out to get you. Eventually the paranoia dies away into a complete hallucination where the nightmare simply surrounds you. You cannot awaken from it, because you are not asleep, nor can you control it. You simply learn to deal with it. It's how you survive. You learn to deal with things.

You've made it this far. _But you weren't always on your own._ You've dealt with far worse than this in your life. _But he was always there._ You've dealt with torture. _But you could always come crawling back to him._ You've dealt with suffering. _But he always was there to make it better._ You've dealt with murder. _But he wasn't supposed to be a victim._

It isn't so bad once you get used to it. You stop being afraid of it, at least. The first few days with it are always the worst. You're used to it by now. You've expirenced it before. You're no stranger to insomnia. You always were the type to spend your nights awake, pouring over books. Pouring over work. Spending nights running away from reality into the safe world of fiction, into the safe world of work, were you become so engrossed in what you are working on that the terror outside ceases to exist. But that only works for so long. Your diet of caffiene and stimulants only lasts for so long before it begins to wear thin. Before the caffiene stops working, and the other stimulants only last for so long. You're not made of money after all. Besides, you always rationed their use, afraid of the long-term consequences.

But it's not like anyone would care, now is it? _He would care._ It's not like anyone would even notice. _He noticed._ People just accepted it as a part of your personality to be an insomniac. _He didn't._ They didn't care about you._ He did._ It's not like anyone would notice if you were to suddenly dissapear. _He would notice._ It's not like anyone would even feel upset-the slightest pang of any emotion._ He would. He would feel guilty-and make you feel guilty in return. You would fail him._

After a while, it stops scaring you, the nightmare world. After a while, you get used to it, the same way the demons get used to hell. It ceases to be a nightmare, and it becomes merely an annoyance. You learn to live with the shadow people living in the corners of your vision all the time. You learn to live with the bugs that do not exist outside of your mind crawling up the walls. You learn to start ignoring them enough to get by in life. In this sordid little half-life you've carved out for yourself.

You could have been somebody. _If only you had listened._ You could have avoided all this. _He was trying to help you._ You should have avoided all this. _Stupid, arrogant boy._ You never should have been here in the first place. _You're a pathetic, weak coward._ You should have been the good little boy you were supposed to be, seen and not heard. _You let them push you around._ You should have had some self-respect. _You followed them around because you were weak. _

You get by, day to day, surviving. Eating little-the stimulants stave off any apetite you might have had. You only eat because you force it down your throat. You shove it down because you're supposed to to keep on living. You must have dropped fifty pounds, and you were always lean and skinny. You suppose it's not a good thing that you can count your ribs or the vertebrae down your back, but you don't mind that much. After all, you're alive, even if you look like a walking corpse. That's what you are anyway. A walking corpse-not alive, not dead, not undead, simply existing.

This is your hell. _Atoning for your sins._ This is your purgatory. _Suffering for your crimes._ You have to live in your hell, unable to escape it. _The coward can't run from this. _You have to see your crime played out in front of you every day._ He asks you why you did it every time you close your eyes._ This is your hell, you cannot die, you are not alive to die. _This is your ninth circle. _You are awake, not alive, not dead, not undead, never able to sleep. _A hell reserved for the traitors. _

_That's all you are. A traitor. You betrayed him. You should have listened to him. You shouldn't be here. You betrayed him. You pledged your fealty to him and you betrayed him. You're a weak, pathetic coward. You don't even belong in the ninth circle of hell. Even Cain was a better man than you. Even Judas was a better man than you. You destroyed the one man that dared put his trust in you. You destroyed the one man that dared care for you. You're pathetic. You're weak. You're nothing more than a simple murderer. _

_Killer. _


End file.
